


A bath, a shave, and knowing him, after all.

by alexaprilgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP with feelings, handjobs, setlock (spoilers!)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:30:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After May 31, I was a bit wrecked from seeing all the setlock pictures from Mount Stuart Square and the supposed drug-rehab / mind palace scenes with a very scruffy and exhausted looking Sherlock. So – whatever might have actually happened in those scenes – I decided to do something about that and to send the boys back home to Baker Street, let them have a bath and a shave. Well, some smut happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A bath, a shave, and knowing him, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. If you spot any mistakes, let me know!
> 
> Thanks to my lovely muse-ish cheerleader asolitarybee and my amazing, thorough beta tooselin. <3

“Come on, Sherlock, let’s go.“ John takes Sherlock’s arm and guides him to the black limousine. Sherlock looks tired. It has been one hell of a day, one hell of a time, ever since he landed on the tarmac again where Sherlock thought he had said good-bye to John for good. But everything is over now, Moriarty, Mary. The child. No child. The drugs. The case. Everything is gone. Sherlock is completely exhausted.  
  
As Mycroft’s car takes them home, John thinks, _Home, finally._ Sherlock falls asleep. John looks at him. He is paler than usual. His hair looks different. His features, which have become so deeply familiar to John, seem odd to him, with the ginger-ish stubble on his cheeks and chin.  
  
_Do I really know him? Always think I do._ In a way, the situation reminds him of the state he was in when he first met Sherlock, years and years ago. He had lost everything. He didn’t know what the next day would bring, he was hurt, lost and tired. So is he now. But there’s a place he can return to. A place he still calls home. And there is someone who has proven once more that he is ready to give everything to make sure John is safe. Someone who cares about him. More than John actually dares to believe. Although John is more than a bit emotionally exhausted, he feels weirdly calm. And focused. The longer the ride takes, the longer Sherlock sleeps, there, in his seat, just a few inches away from him, and the longer the past events sink in, the clearer it all becomes for John. He realized ages ago that he actually loves Sherlock. When Sherlock was gone, after he jumped. When he came back, literally _seconds_ too late, everything in John’s life had changed. So he went to marry that woman he had proposed to, standing next to the man he loved. Let her shoot him and almost loosing him again.  
  
_Do I really know him? I have no idea what’s going on his head. Fuck it,_ John decides, _I’m not going to waste any more opportunities, any more time._ He will tell him. Show him. Anything. If Sherlock loves him in the same way John does, craving his touch, desperate for his body and closeness, it’s fine. And if he doesn’t feel like that and values John in some inexplicable platonic Sherlockian manner and will just allow him to be with him and carry on with their old life, it will be fine as well. Suddenly John is sure. He doesn’t care in what way Sherlock loves him. As long as he does love him.  
  
The ride seems to take forever. Houses rush by and the night falls. Sherlock hasn’t been at Baker Street in days. John assumes the place will be a mess, the fridge empty except for moulded food and the remains of his last experiments. He sends a text to Mycroft, asking if he could arrange for the fire in the flat to be lit and some food to be delivered. He doesn’t care about Mycroft interfering any more. Things have changed so much. Mycroft replies instantly, a simple ‘Of course, John.’ And a second later, ‘Thank you for taking care of my brother.’ _What else could I do?_  
  
When the car finally comes to a halt at Baker Street, John touches Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“Sherlock. Wake up. We’re home.“  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes. After a moment of disorientation, his body straightens. He casts a look of something like thankfulness at John and gets out of the car. John thanks the driver and follows Sherlock. He is leaning against the wall, not bothering to open the door. John fumbles his keys out of his pockets, as Mrs Hudson opens from inside the house.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock...“ Her voice is full of worry.  
  
“Mrs Hudson. I’ll take him upstairs.“  
  
“Yes, John, take him home. Just give me a call if you need anything, will you?“  
  
John nods and gently squeezes her small and wrinkled hand as they go inside. On the stairs, he is right behind Sherlock, one hand on his back to make sure he won’t fall.  
  
When they enter the flat, the familiar scent of home is mixed with Indian spices. They find boxes from an Indian restaurant on the kitchen table, far more than usual and from a far better place than where they used to order food. It smells delicious. John takes Sherlock’s coat and hangs it on the hooks in the hallway right next to his own. When he returns to the kitchen, Sherlock has gotten himself a glass of water. He drinks greedily.  
  
“Dinner? John?“ Sherlock’s voice is rough.  
  
“Yes. Starving. And you must be, too.“  
  
In reply, Sherlock gets two forks out of the drawer, sits down and opens the boxes. They eat in silence. This is more than eating. This is sustaining the basic needs of life. Food, drink, a safe place to stay. With someone to watch over you.  
  
When they are finished, Sherlock leans back in his chair. He inhales deeply and shoves his fingers into his hair.  
  
“How are you, Sherlock?“  
  
“Better. Sleeping in the car was good. The food was good. You must be proud of me, eating and sleeping properly, John.“  
  
“That’s nowhere near properly. That was just life-saving,“ John laughs. Sherlock smiles, too.  
  
“So.“  
  
“Yeah.“  
  
“Are you going to stay?“  
  
Despite his thoughts and making up his mind earlier in the car, Sherlock’s question hits John unexpectedly. He imagined Sherlock not to fully grasp the situation, to be too tired. Of course he is not.  
  
“Yes,“ he replies slowly. “I am. If you let me.“  
  
“I do.“  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but smiles. Without the usual edge of mockery or sarcasm in his eyes. John can’t read him. _God, don’t I ever know him?_ , he wonders, suddenly feeling as if he is treading on too thin ice.  
  
“Goodness, I need to clean myself up. I feel awful. I need a shave.“ Sherlock gets up and walks to the hallway. When John starts to clean the table, Sherlock turns and holds John’s gaze. _Are you coming? I don’t want be alone. And I don’t care about anything._ John’s mouth goes dry. He swallows and licks his lips. He still isn’t sure if he understood correctly, but he follows Sherlock. _Of course. I am coming. I will never leave you alone again._  
  
In the small bathroom, Sherlock lets water into the tub. It takes a while until it is filled. John sits on the floor, leaning against the wall. Sherlock pours some of his shower gel into the hot water. The room fills with steam from the tub and the scent of his soap. He slowly undresses, gets rid of his socks first, opens the buttons of his shirt and takes it off. John simply sits and watches. He sees the scars on Sherlock’s back. He has seen them before, but the silvery lines still give him goosebumps, despite the warm humid air in the room. Sherlock opens his trousers, pulls them down and steps out. In one fluid, elegant move, Sherlock takes down his pants and gets into the tub. _What a beautiful man,_ John thinks.  
  
Sherlock sinks into the warm water. His head is resting against the rim of the tub, he is closing his eyes and relaxing visibly. The room is silent except for their breathing. A soft, soothing sound.  
  
After a long while, John says, “Don’t fall asleep, I can’t drag you out of the tub on my own.”  
  
“I won’t. But you’re right.“ Sherlock sits up, takes his shower gel and washes himself thoroughly. When he is done with his body, he washes his hair, rinses it and looks at John.  
  
“Can you hand me my razor?“  
  
“Yeah, sure. Do you want me to help you? You don’t have a mirror over there.“ John gets up to fetch Sherlock’s razor and his foam from the basin.  
  
“Might be a good idea. If you don’t mind.“  
  
“I don’t.“ John really doesn’t. Maybe this should feel weird – watching Sherlock undress, take a bath – or at least arousing (well, it is arousing, quite a bit, but still it isn’t the biggest thing happening right now). But John is surprisingly calm and easy, quite enjoying this simple and intimate situation. He kneels down beside the tub and gently spreads foam on Sherlock’s cheeks, his chin and neck. Sherlock closes his eyes. John is close to him. He can see every single one of his long lashes, the blueish veins on his eyelids and the faint lines on his lips. He touches Sherlock’s jaw with his right hand and starts to shave him with his left. He concentrates on what he is doing the way he concentrates on a surgery. It is quite a different thing to shave oneself than it is to shave another man. Putting a blade to his throat and making sure he won’t even get a scratch.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes remain shut all throughout the shave. When John has finished the last bit, all the ginger stubble is gone. Small patches of foam are left on his face.  
  
“Rinse now, Sherlock. I’m finished.“  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes, looks at John and simply says, “Thank you.“ He splashes water on his face and washes the rest of the foam off. “Better?“  
  
“Wait, there’s a tiny bit left here...“  
  
John tries to wipe the small white spot right beneath his lower lip off as lightly as possible. But he fails, and the movement becomes something heavier, loaded with want and desire, when he touches Sherlock’s lush lip with his thumb. _God, where is this going?,_ he wonders, just hoping it isn’t too much for Sherlock. Or the wrong thing, after all.  
  
When he takes his eyes off Sherlock’s mesmerizing lip and looks into his eyes again, he nearly drowns in those green-grey-blue irides. His heart goes faster. He can’t move when Sherlock leans toward him a bit, tilts his head and pulls John closer with his wet hands. Sherlock’s lips brush against his, feather light and warm. They rest against each other for the blink of an eye, then John exhales and kisses back. Moving his lips, Sherlock opens his in invitation. When John’s tongue touches Sherlock’s, John feels like coming home once more tonight. Sherlock tastes like spices and Sherlock and feels absolutely breathtaking. Sherlock pulls John even closer, not caring about John’s shirts getting soaking wet and water running over his face where Sherlock touches him. John’s hands run through Sherlock wet hair, along his neck, his collarbones. They dive into the water to touch his chest.  
  
Sherlock breaks the kiss.  
  
“Everything alright?”, John asks.  
  
“Towel”, Sherlock replies a bit breathlessly, and John hands him the nearest one. Sherlock gets up, dries his body hastily and gets out of the tub. _Oh God, he is rock-hard and looks like temptation itself,_ John realizes and his heart skips a beat. He stands in front of John, who has risen to his feet too, suddenly looking a bit lost and unsure.  
  
“Bedroom, maybe?” John suggests. He tries to put as much calmness in his voice as he can, but he is quite sure it shakes nonetheless. He clears his throat.  
  
“Yeah. Now.” Sherlock takes John’s hand and guides him through the door to his bedroom.  
  
“Might as well get rid of these,” John whispers as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock leans down, kisses his neck and John almost stops undressing. Sherlock notices his pausing and tugs down his shirt. He looks at his bare chest and the scar.¬  
  
“It’s not exactly beautiful, I know,“ John whispers.  
  
“We’re both scarred.“ Sherlock’s voice sounds deep and dark. “So who cares.“ He places a small kiss onto the white, thick scar tissue on John’s shoulder. John takes of the rest of his clothes, aided by Sherlock’s hands, which are expressing something between shyness and growing desire.  
  
Sherlock’s skin is still warm from the bath, he smells like his soap and his shampoo. The heat of his touch shows him how alive Sherlock is, how close and how real.  
  
As Sherlock lies down on his large bed, John looks at him and is lost in in what he sees. His long, muscled arms and legs, the fair skin that seems to reflect the dim light. His hair, chaotic and curly from drying without being combed. Sherlock’s stomach is flat and a thin line of brown-ginger hair trails down from his navel to his pubic hair. His cock is erect and has quite a stunning effect on John. He has seen a number of cocks, sometimes that’s part of being a doctor. He has seen a fair share during his army times, in the showers. Once, after a night of shared drinks in the camp, even one like this, erect, flushed. He had touched it, curious and with lust, had taken him in his mouth and had given his first and, so far, only blow job. It was some kind of a one-night stand, he hadn’t dated the man in any way. Hadn’t even had a crush on him.  
  
John gets into the bed, desperate to touch Sherlock again. Their kisses get sloppier, filthier, filled to the brim with desire. Their light touches grow stronger and wilder. When John buries his hand in Sherlock’s hair once more, he can’t help but pull a bit. Sherlock lets out a hoarse cry. John feels the wetness from Sherlock’s cock against his stomach. His right hand is still entangled in Sherlock’s hair, his left touching Sherlock’s cock, giving him a few strokes. He needs to feel Sherlock’s cock, needs to see his reaction. He had been unsure whether Sherlock felt these things at all for too long. Sherlock pants hard, opening his mouth as if he can’t get enough air through his nose.  
  
“Don’t stop that, oh God, don’t stop...“, he whispers. Sherlock is intoxicating. He surrenders to the sensations, melts down into them, savours them with every cell of his body.  
  
“Fuck, _John_...,“ he groans and this is simply the sexiest thing John has ever heard. He kisses Sherlock and pours all his want into it. Sherlock pants into his mouth and shivers as John strokes his cock some more. John takes them both into his hand and sighs vocally about how amazing this feels and how badly he needs the friction on his cock. Sherlock’s voice pitches higher and higher when John caresses the head of his cock. He feels Sherlock falling apart under his touch. So unguarded, vulnerable, open and without holding anything back. His breaths come faster and faster. And when he starts to move his hips and thrusts into John’s hand, John’s mind is about to go into overload. He isn’t sure if he can take all of this or any more. He kisses him greedily, still panting. Sherlock’s hands run over John’s back, down to his ass and pull him closer. John can see that he is close. The touch of Sherlock’s hands on his ass and the sensation of his cock, wet and leaking, thrusting against his own, is arousing beyond words. Their movements align, speed up, become rougher and harder. John wants to see Sherlock, he lifts his head and chest a bit higher, just enough to see him properly. He feels Sherlock’s rushed breath on his face. He sees the droplets of fresh sweat running down his gorgeous, elegant neck and gathering in that small curve between his collar bones. Sherlock’s freshly shaved face is slightly pink. His mouth forms a delicious ‘o’ and his eyes, Sherlock’s unique, amazing eyes, are fixed on him. They both move faster. The grip of Sherlock’s hand on his flesh gets harder. Sherlock’s back arches, he throws back his head, but he doesn’t stop looking at John when he comes. He spends himself with a hoarse cry. John is almost being pushed over the edge himself, but when he realizes how much Sherlock has just opened up - Christ, he has been hiding himself from his partner behind shut eyes more than once. Worrying the other might take too much of a glimpse into his soul, that he would be too exposed. It hits him like a truck how much Sherlock loves him and trusts him. That fucking brilliant, beautiful man, who is currently shivering under him with aftershocks. He bends down and kisses him hungrily, Sherlock kisses back with a moan and that does it. The world goes silent and is reduced to him and Sherlock, and pleasure washes over him like a tsunami.  
  
He finds himself breathing heavily on Sherlock’s chest a few moments later. John can’t recall feeling this right in years. _Sherlock. Here. With me. Finally._  
  
“John?“, Sherlock says after a few minutes.  
  
“Yeah?“  
  
Sherlock doesn’t go on.  
  
“What is it? Sherlock?“  
  
John caresses Sherlock’s face.  
  
“I am not sure if I can ever let you go again.”  
  
“That’s fine. I’m not going anyway.”  
  
He can feel Sherlock’s smile.  
  
“I have never felt this way before, John.”  
  
“I wasn’t sure if you felt this way at all.”  
  
“I do… so much.”  
  
A couple of moments pass like a liquid eternity.  
  
“I… love you, John.”  
  
Something inside John’s chest explodes. Warm joy pours from his stomach into his body.  
  
“God, I love you, too. I am the happiest man on earth right now.”  
  
He huffs out a laugh and kisses Sherlock, slowly and tenderly. Sherlock’s eyes glisten and shine. _How much Sherlock lets me see now, he isn’t hiding anything anymore. Maybe he lets me know him, after all._  
  
They fall asleep eventually, the stressful past days finally take their toll on them. When they wake up late the next day, they’re sticky and messy and happy, and life seems to start anew. Time to make things right.  



End file.
